


The Red Sky at Dawn

by TheMarvelousMadMadamMim



Series: A Summer in Cintra [6]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M, Guest appearance by Sir Danek, a summer in cintra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 10:02:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23849398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim/pseuds/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim
Summary: Eist sends word from Skellige--they're setting sail, potentially for war with Metinna.Calanthe really only has one choice, in response.
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach
Series: A Summer in Cintra [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658368
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So. I think we're all pretty clear that I have like...THE LOOSEST grasp on the actual lore of the books, right? Right. So if things regarding geography and the timeline of events in the actual book/show are a wee bit off, we're all agreed to just smile and ignore them, right? Right. Good on ya, carry on.
> 
> Just fyi: The Jarl of Hindarsfjall is briefly mentioned in a previous story in this series, "I Am Weak, My Love, I Am Wanting."

Calanthe is restless, prowling the castle halls like a vengeful ghost seeking its prey.

Three days now. Three nights without his body beside ( _beneath, above_ ) hers. Three mornings of being met with emptiness as she rolls over in bed.

Three days of Ciri, chirping for her beloved _Granfer_ and begging to go to the river. Of course, Calanthe hasn’t denied her the trips, heart hurting a bit at having to explain every time that Grandfather isn’t here today, he’ll be back soon (though not soon enough, she thinks morosely).

It’s not as if she’s been without him before. It’s not as if he hasn’t been gone for far longer before. It’s not as if she’s never missed him.

But he’s never gone with the tint of war upon the horizon. Never gone and left Calanthe with such a heavy stone of dread in her stomach.

Metinna is a snake's nest of political unrest. It’s only been a year or so since they’d received word that it had fallen under Nilfgaard’s rule, now a province rather than a kingdom in its own right. Its king is no longer even allowed the title—he is a steward now, nothing more.

Calanthe knows how long it takes for regions to settle, after bloody and cruel conflict. She’s heard tales of what Nilfgaard does, to ensure subservience to the empire. She knows what potentially awaits her husband, just below the surface of this new conflict.

There’s nothing she can do but wait. She’s never been particularly good at waiting.

Since there’s no reason to stay in bed, she’s in her private study shortly after dawn. Chair pointed towards the windows, wrapped in her dressing gown and watching the sky for ravens.

He should have made it to Skellige by now.

Unless, of course, there was a storm. Or ill winds. Or no wind at all. Or some horrible monster of the deep, rising up to crack his ship’s hull like a walnut.

She closes her eyes against such thoughts, willing herself to stop.

She’s on her feet again, roaming back down the hall to her chambers. She calls her ladies to dress her. It’s something, something to fill the time and hurry the day along. Still, she catches herself looking towards the window. Towards the sea, towards the sky.

* * *

It’s the morning of the fifth day and Pavetta and Ciri have invaded her study, where she’s holed up again, back in her chair at the window. Pavetta is working on some kind of knitting, head bent over the mass of yarn in her lap. She knows the skill is not a side-effect of Pavetta’s gift, but still, it seems like magic. Beyond her own abilities or comprehension, that is for certain.

Ciri sits at her mother’s feet for awhile, playing with her cloth bunny and eventually giving it a tour of the room as she quietly babbles on, occasionally holding it up to see the spine of a book or a pot of ink or collection of scrolls upon a shelf ( _look, Sir Hops, look_ ).

Calanthe watches her with a wry smile, momentarily distracted.

If Eist were here, he’d be walking along behind Ciri, giving low hums and adding to her commentary with a few notes of his own. As if they were strolling through a grand library, casual tourists who’d never been here before.

A stirring at the study door pulls her attention, and when she sees the raven master’s face, she’s on her feet in a flash, eating up the distance between them.

Somehow, she missed the raven.

The raven master hands over the small piece of scrolled parchment. It’s been opened, but she doesn’t worry over that—he simply needed to know to whom it should be delivered. And Calanthe’s title, written in her husband’s familiar script, is the only thing the man could understand anyways.

They created a code, ages ago. Before they were married, actually. At the time, they’d agreed it was the best course of action, in case a bird fell into the wrong hands and gave away any potential plans for political maneuvers. Now, she can look back and see how desperate they were, even then, to carve out something entirely their own, something only they shared and understood.

Granted, it now allowed for some rather…brazen communication between them, whilst he was away. Which certainly didn’t hurt.

However, today’s missive doesn’t go into longing detail about the things he misses, or even a sequel to a rather memorable ode to a rather particular part of her body that he wrote, which she still has, tucked away in a box in her chambers. No. Today’s is short, simple, gut-punchingly direct.

_The jarls have voted for war. We sail in two days, upon the dawn._

Tomorrow, she realizes, calculating the time it took the raven to arrive. He sets out for Metinna tomorrow. Another voyage across the terrifying sea, but this one taking him farther from her reach. To a hostile land, to a place where unrest and dissension are constantly brewing.

Her stomach is soured. Fear coils like a serpent in her gut, slithering up, tightening around her throat.

Ciri is at her side, eager to see what’s in her hand.

“‘Prise, ‘prise?” Ciri guesses, eyes dancing with hopeful curiosity.

“It is a surprise, of sorts,” Calanthe concedes. She scoops her granddaughter into her arms, slowly making her way back to her chair. Pavetta has stopped, eyes cautiously watching her mother.

“Skellige is sailing to Metinna at dawn,” she explains, placing a light kiss on Ciri’s head.

Pavetta makes a small, low noise of dismay.

“And what of Cintra?” She asks.

Calanthe considers the question. In truth, it’s a question she asked Eist, in the days before he set sail. After all, that was the outward reasoning behind their union—that each country now had an unassailable ally within the other. Skellige’s wars are Cintra’s, now.

Eist had been adamant, though. Skellige needed to show its own might. It was a relatively petty matter, may not even result in an actual war or even a battle. Bringing in Cintra’s military could escalate the situation far beyond the necessary measures.

She’d understood the logic, and, from a tactical standpoint, agreed with it.

But her heart isn’t a tactical thing. It is sloppy and pining and prone to make messes.

She settles into her chair, letting Ciri play with the little scrap of paper ( _the last thing he ever writes to her?_ ). She looks up to the sky again, feeling a measure of sudden certainty.

If this is a thing of choice, then she’s going to make her own decisions.

It isn’t about what she wants to do. It’s about what she must.

* * *

It takes nearly a week to get to Metinna from Skellige—and that’s with a single, sleek ship. To manage a whole fleet adds two extra days.

Eist props one foot on the railing at the bow of the ship, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looks to the coastline. Metinna, capitol of Metinna. The continental cities have never been particularly inventive, often naming their capitols after the countries and provinces they represent—or perhaps it’s the other way around, he isn’t truly sure. Mousesack told him, most likely, years ago. He just couldn’t be bothered with actually listening, at the time.

It’s even warmer here, further south than Cintra.

Cintra. It occupies his thoughts most deeply. Though his mind strays more to its queen— _his_ queen—than anything else.

He knew that by the time the raven arrived at Cintra, there wouldn’t be enough time for Calanthe to send a reply. His mind replays the look on her face, the last time he saw her. How small she seemed, even in one of her dresses with the shoulders built like actual pauldrons (a sure sign that she already felt vulnerable—over the last three years, he has learned the language of her clothing, what it means when she wears certain things, what it gives her), even standing tall and firm upon the dock, every inch a queen. The smallness wasn’t in her stature or her physical presentation at all. It was entirely in her eyes. The small, bereft look she fixed upon him as he sailed away.

He tries not to think about how her expression must have looked, when she read his missive. Tries to focus instead on how she will look, when he returns to her. Those eyes will be dancing again, dark and delighted. She’ll probably make a snarky quip, when they are in public, perhaps even seem a bit aloof, a bit cool—but when they are alone, oh, she will be ferocious and needy and grateful, practically pouring herself into his hands.

He shouldn’t think about that, either, he realizes. He needs a clear head, for what must come next.

Following his brother’s legacy, he will not simply pillage and plunder, as Skellige has done in days of old. He will arrive in stately decorum, keeping the rest of the ships anchored further out at sea, just beyond the harbor. He will ride in procession to the steward’s keep, sending a messenger on ahead to herald his arrival. It is the way of things, a sign of diplomatic respect. He will bow and offer neutral words, he will remain open and willing to mend whatever strange rift has occurred here.

He will be a politician, as much as he hates the game of politics.

But it isn’t just about honoring Bran’s legacy, he knows. It’s about the way his life shifted, nearly three years ago.

Before, he had no compulsion, rushing straight into battle, letting his sword speak far quicker and more concisely than his tongue ever could. After all, what did he have to fear? What did he have to lose?

Now, those questions hold far more answers, and far more weight. He must live—he must return to his life, his family, his wonderful dream come true. It is different, now. Knowing that his safety holds such great value to those outside himself.

Not that his blood family didn’t value his life, mind you. But they all had their wives and husbands and children, should any fate befall him. Now _he_ is the husband, the stepfather, the grandfather. Now he has people who would be left with much larger voids in their lives, if he were to leave them.

Cirilla. His chest clenches at the thought of that little imp, that little ray of light and laughter. Great Father of the sea, she wouldn’t even be able to remember him, if he were to die now. The thought sits uncomfortably. It aches, knowing that for all that they’ve shared, it would leave no imprint upon her memory.

No, he must survive. If only long enough to be some part of that child’s life forever, some source of comfort or joy, in some small way. Perhaps it’s far more selfish than simply melting away without leaving the pain of memories, but he cannot stop himself from wanting it, needing it.

And Calanthe. She’s given him so much, given him parts of herself that he knows, with a certainty deep in his bones, no one else has even been honored to receive. Just as he has done the same for her. How could he end their story now, how could he deprive both of them the chance for more?

Yes. He will go to the steward’s court. He will speak with the tongues of angels. He will bring peace as swiftly as he can. For all their sakes.

He captains his usual ship—it is not a war vessel, its purpose is for swift and light travel over the seas. It’s the build of a corsair, but leaner and smaller, a bit like a cat alongside a lion. The heavier, more menacing traditional corsairs slowly come to a halt outside the harbor, setting anchors. A few drakkars follow along as well, oarmen calling out orders as they slow and circle around the corsairs as well. His ship continues on, gliding into port like a butterfly on the wind.

His mare is brought onto the deck, readied for the journey. She’s Cintran-bred, barrel-chested and built for long bolts across dry lands. A descendant of the stock Calanthe first gifted to his brother, in the years before their marriage—back when she was first making overtures, interested in securing a marriage between Pavetta and Crach.

Even when she’s thousands of miles away, she still has a hand in every aspect of his life, he thinks wryly. Soon he and a few other men are guiding their horses through the crowds at the harbor, all glancing around in various stages of curiosity and anxious alertness.

He spots them, almost immediately—he knows Cintran armor when he sees it, without hesitation.

There are only a few of them. And they seem to have been waiting for him.

_Calanthe._ His heart tugs between affection and irritation.

The knights do not approach. Instead, they merely dip their heads slightly in acknowledgment, watching him carry on.

He’ll deal with them later, he decides. They don’t seem to be causing any trouble—if anything, the way people mill around them without so much as a second glance implies that they’ve been here for a day or two, at least.

* * *

Metinna is a province of Nilfgaard, and for the most part, acts solely under its own authority. However, its steward is quick to inform Eist that the push against Skelligen merchants and mercenaries and crew-for-hire is not a decision of Metinna’s, but rather the empire itself.

“Your fight is not with Metinna.” The steward repeats. He’s a fidgety man, caught between two terrifying prospects and happy with neither. “But with the Nilfgaardian soldiers who have taken camp outside the city, just south. They come into the harbor every few days, trying to clear out anyone from foreign lands.”

“But Islanders bear the brunt of their clearing,” Eist points out, barely keeping the edge from his tone. He doesn’t mention the Skelligen ship that was set aflame, just last month. Still, they both know that’s the real catalyst for his arrival.

The steward nods quickly, not denying the accusation. “It is—they have orders. I have seen them, sealed with the Emperor’s mark. An injustice approved by the crown is still one I must allow, I’m afraid.”

Eist considers this. Curtly thanks the steward and heads back to his ship.

* * *

Now, the Cintran knights are at the docks. Dismounted, lined up and awaiting his return, apparently.

By the time he arrives in front of his own ship, one soldier has removed his helmet, patiently waiting as Eist pulls his horse to a halt.

Eist’s brain prickles with a sense of familiarity. The boy’s young, one of the newest batch of knights. His whiskers still come in patches, not fully grown—he knows the face, he just can’t remember the name.

“Sir Danek, your highness.” The man tilts his head in reverence. Obviously, he knows that Eist wouldn’t remember the name of a barely-tested knight.

“Long way from home, Sir Danek,” Eist points out, not unkindly. His eyes rove over the rest of the company. Five knights, in total (he could have sworn there were six, before). Not an overwhelming force, but still enough to be noticeable—and more than enough to do some damage, in this town that focuses more on trading than warfare.

“The queen honors your wishes by not sending Cintran forces to Metinna,” Danek assures him, and Eist fights back a smile.

Of course, Calanthe would want that to be the first point made, and of course, she found a loophole. She didn’t send forces, didn’t send battalions or even an actual cavalry. Eist already knows what’s happened, but allows Danek to continue explaining anyways.

“She merely asked if there were a few brave knights, willing to earn her good grace by…taking a trip to Metinna, to welcome you back to the continent.” Even Danek understands that something a bit under-handed is going on, and Eist can’t help but admire his tenacity. The young man saw a chance to impress his queen, and took it, at the risk of upsetting his king. Not that Eist blames him—given the choice, he’d take anyone’s wrath over that of his wife’s.

Eist can bet the other men are equally young and equally hungry for a chance to rise through the ranks. Two of them have armor that doesn’t even properly fit them—petty knights without much coin, more than willing to ride out under the promise of generous repayment.

He remembers the age, the feeling, the need to prove oneself. So he merely dips his head slightly. “Very well, Sir Danek. I do feel…most welcomed by your presence.”

Danek gives a curt nod of understanding. Still, Eist hesitates—he knows that Calanthe will ask for details of this encounter, when they return to her court. So he does his best to show that he can be king of Cintra, too.

“Sir Danek, as citizens of Cintra, you and your men will find succor aboard our ship. You are all most welcome to join us there. We sup soon, and I think you will be pleased to know that Skelligen ships carry Cintran ale.”

He smiles at the men, who shift slightly at the pronouncement. They’ve probably ridden fast and light, trying to get here before him. A chance to simply sit and eat—and drink their own beer—without having to watch their backs is most likely a delight they did not expect to encounter.

However, Danek still hesitates. “Your highness, we do welcome the thought of such hospitality. But our commander already awaits you, aboard the ship. We do not wish to move from our post until he has given us leave.”

Fair enough, Eist decides. A good commander, to be held in higher esteem than a king.

Eist dismounts, handing the reins to his squire, and makes his way aboard the ship. He opens the door to his private state room, a bit put-off by the fact that this commander has so presumptuously entered without awaiting his arrival or permission.

The commander can’t be more than boy, either. Slight build, ill-fitting armor.

Briefly, he wonders if he should be slightly offended. Calanthe has certainly sent a motley crew.

The commander turns at the sound of his approach, whipping off his helmet once Eist closes the door behind him.

It isn’t a boy at all. It’s a queen.

“Don’t be angry,” Calanthe commands, tone quick and cutting, fully expecting to be obeyed.

It means nothing against the look of absolute fear in her eyes, or the way the corner of her mouth quivers, ever so slightly, at his approach.

He has her wrapped up in his arms before he can even think about it, breathing quietly into her ear, “How could I be?”

She sighs in relief at the pronouncement, her armor creaking at the way her body slumps forward.

He steps back, fully taking in her ensemble. “Where on earth did you find this?”

“Well I couldn’t very well show up in my own _quite distinct_ armor, could I now?” She steps back, gloved hands slipping down the front of her breastplate in a slightly offended air.

“Can you even really fight in that thing?” He gauges the fit. The breastplate seems far too loose, more of a hindrance than a help.

“Draw your sword and find out.” Her brow arches in a haughty challenge.

He laughs, shaking his head. He takes her face in his hands, savors the taste of her lips, dry and chapped from what must have been a long, hard ride south. She smells of sweat and horses and oddly metallic, and he honestly can’t imagine a more erotic scent.

Still, there are points to be made. “I told you not to send—”

“And I didn’t.” She steps back, eyes wide with sincerity. She truly believes her loophole. “I didn’t _send_ anyone—I _came_ down here, myself. I happened to ask a few young knights if they wished to take a ride as well.”

“Yes, Sir Danek was quite clear in making that point.” He can’t help the wry grin sliding across his face.

She gives a small smile of approval. _Good boy._ He’s definitely earned whatever reward she’s promised him, Eist thinks.

“I didn’t break my promise,” she re-iterates, expression becoming serious once more. There’s still a hint of fear.

She needs him to believe this, he realizes. Needs him to understand that she would never willingly break a promise that she made to him, even if she bends it quite a bit.

More than anything, he understands that this was the only way to ease the fear in her heart, that she couldn’t allow even the chance of a battle where she couldn’t be there to defend him.

“I know,” he says simply. He kisses her again, letting her feel just how deeply he knows this.

She sighs lightly into his mouth, relieved at the pronouncement.

Eist breaks away, smiling again as he adds, “I invited Danek and the others to come aboard. He informed me that he preferred to wait until he was given the order to leave his post by his commander.”

Calanthe’s grin reappears. Yes, Sir Danek is proving himself quite solidly. He’s ambitious and intelligent, two factors that Calanthe favors.

She steps back, putting her helmet back on before heading for the door. Once she’s out on the deck, she makes a curt motion with her arm, signaling her men to come aboard.

Eist wonders how many of them know her true identity. Danek, for certain. The others, he’s not so sure.

One of the other knights in equally ill-fitting armor takes off his helmet, once he’s aboard the ship. Pemell, one of her personal guard.

Alright, at least two know, then. Eist feels a measure of comfort. Pemell is a good man. Calanthe was surely safe, every step of the long ride to Metinna.

Eist steps forward, easily going back to his usual role. The Cintrans’ horses aren’t used to ships, so they’re boarded at a stable near the port—Eist leaves two of his own men to handle to task, then orders the ship to head back out to the rest of the fleet.

Once the men are seen to with food and ale, Eist and their commander retreat back to his quarters.

Calanthe removes her helmet again, biting her bottom lip as she smiles at him.

“I rather enjoy watching you in command,” she admits, one brow arching.

“As I do you,” he returns in a low tone, leaning in to kiss that brow.

“What did the steward have to say?” She shifts the conversation easily, walking around the heavy oak table that sits near the bank of windows.

He’s momentarily distracted—he’s always liked the distinct swagger she has, when she’s in armor. Some of it comes from the confines of the suit itself, some comes from the sheer power she feels while in it. Her stance stays wide and loose, adding more roll to her hips—those hips, he’s seen and felt the kind of magic they can work, when she sets them to task.

Has it really only been less than two weeks, since he’s held them last?

She sets her helmet in a chair and looks back up at him, silently prompting an answer.

“Metinna isn’t involved,” Eist moves closer, shaking his head as he refocuses on the actual situation at hand. “Nilfgaard has granted a group of knights the right to clear out any foreign nationals from the ports, it seems.”

She huffs at that. “Fat lot of luck that’ll bring ‘em. Half the city’s from anywhere but here.”

He hums in agreement. “Still, their aim seems to be…particularly Skelligen-directed.”

She looks up at that, expression softening in mild surprise. “Because of the Cintran connection?”

He merely presses his lips together. It’s answer enough.

Calanthe sighs and jerks at the strap of her left pauldron. Soon it’s completely unbuckled, clanking on the table.

“Do the men know?” he asks, dipping his head towards her.

“They do,” she gives a small nod. “They didn’t before we left the city, because I didn’t want anyone running their mouths about being special enough to ride out with the queen—as far as the court is concerned, I’m beset with ailments.”

The code they use when her monthly courses arrive, Eist knows. He fights back a smile. Calanthe, using women’s troubles as an excuse to sneak out and play at war.

“Particularly rough, this time around,” she shakes her head with a low, dramatic sigh. She’s pleased, he can tell. She removes her right pauldron as well, giving a slight roll of her shoulders at the sudden freedom of movement. “Seems I’m abed for days. Thankfully, my daughter and her husband are more than capable of managing the petty day-to-day running of the kingdom.”

He nods in agreement. Pavetta, now that she’s slightly older and a mother herself, is a bit wiser. And Duny is capable, in an almost alarming way for a man of his youth. If all goes well, Calanthe won’t even be gone a full week. So very few will be the wiser—and the young men who are, will be greatly rewarded for their silence, he’s certain.

He moves closer still, watching with mild curiosity as his wife turns her attention to the leather buckles of her breastplate. He could help, but she doesn’t need it and he rather likes simply enjoying the show.

“So what’s your plan?” She asks, the question going a bit hollow halfway through, as she lifts the breastplate over her head. He reaches forward, taking it from her grasp and settling it onto the floor.

“I’m not sure,” he admits. With a shake of his head, he adds, “I’m certain that Nilfgaard is already well-aware of a large Skelligen fleet at their door. It may be best to wait and see what their response is.”

She looks at him for a beat. _Best not wait too long, dear hound._

She’s right, he knows. Right now, he has the advantage.

Part of him already knows the answer, but still he asks, “What would you do?”

“If I were in your position?” She pauses, then nods, “Take the upper hand. Put a chokehold on the harbor. They don’t care about a few lives lost in battle, they never have. Then again, when you breed like rats, it’s not a hard sacrifice to make. But losing a few pretty pennies because trade is suspended? Oh, they’ll pay attention for sure.”

Still, she doesn’t really like the answer, he can tell. Mainly because he can see her face as she realizes what it would mean—potentially months of him being stuck here on a ship, away from her.

“But,” she takes a slight breath, tilting her head in consideration. “If I were in Nilfgaard’s position? Take a moment to parlay. Nilfgaard is nothing without trade, and they barely hold control over Metinna as it is. Skellige could shut down every single port they have along the coast. Cintra could shut down the trading routes in the north—they’d be back to eating lizards and living in mud huts within weeks. And they do so _pride_ themselves on pulling away from such a heritage.”

Her distinct distaste for the Nilfgaardians never fails to make itself known, he thinks wryly.

She looks up at him again, face lined with a sudden exhaustion.

“I don’t know,” she says simply. “I just—all I have focused on, until this point, was getting here. Beyond that, I…I’m not much help, I’m afraid.”

A declaration she’d never make anywhere but in the privacy of their own company, he knows. If advisors were present, she’d be cutting and decisive. But here, with him, just him, she’s able to be honest.

“You are already more help than you know,” he assures her, moving closer. He stands behind her, lightly pulling at her waist. The tasses covering her hips creak in response and he idly realizes that he’s never fucked her in her armor. Though technically, this isn’t her armor, either.

“Seriously, where on earth did you find the suit?” He can’t help but grin again.

She reaches back, smacking his hip in reprimand. “It’s what was available on short notice. I’ve already told you, I couldn’t bloody well—”

“I know, I know,” he places a kiss against the side of her head. With a wry smile, he points out, “Though the sight of the Lioness riding up to Metinna—it certainly would have had quite a few men shaking in their boots, with or without an army behind you.”

She hums warmly at that.

“You still make a dashing young knight,” he concedes. His hand slips down, grabbing as much of her ass as it can—a bit of a feat, considering the amount of metal he has to navigate around to do it. “I can’t say I’ve ever found one attractive, til now, but there’s a first time for everything, I suppose.”

She laughs breathlessly at that. Still, she teases, “Wouldn’t you much prefer a queen?”

“I’ll take _you_ , however you come.” There’s a double-entendre in there, which she doesn’t miss, acknowledging it with another low hum that’s almost a growl.

The best part of Calanthe in armor is the lack of corset. The easy softness of her body, noticeable even through the layers of padded shirt and linen blouse. Eist gives a small, happy sigh at the sensation, letting his hands roam her torso. She shifts and moves slightly, unbuckling the tasses from her waist and gingerly removing them from her hips, careful not to disturb her husband’s grasp on her breasts.

He pulls her closer, delighted at being able to feel more of her body, with less armor in the way

“How fares Cintra, in my absence?” He asks, more out of a desire to hear his wife’s voice than actual curiosity.

“Ciri misses you,” she says softly, leaning further against him. He’s rather certain that Ciri isn’t the only one included in that sentiment.

“I miss her, too.” He places a kiss on her ear. Again, he isn’t speaking solely of his granddaughter.

“She’s been screaming _arse_ loud enough to wake the dead,” Calanthe admits, tone dry with both amusement and irritation. “Usually at dinner, when there are the most ears available to hear.”

He chuckles at that. “One has to credit her sense of timing.”

This earns him a laugh from his wife. The small moment of happiness slowly shifts. Eist simply keeps his arms around her, his chin on her shoulder as they softly and quietly sway with the movement of the ship.

“Bran would exhaust every effort for peace,” Calanthe announces quietly, after a long silence.

He hums in agreement. Of course, she knows that his main goal as king is to continue his brother’s legacy of alliance, diplomacy, and most importantly, peace for his nation.

She’s right. Bran would wait for Nilfgaard’s response. Give them a chance to see the error of their ways, before shedding a drop of blood.

He’s known as much, before she said it. Still, it feels reassuring, to hear the words repeated aloud to him. Affirmation that the direction he’s leaning is indeed the right one.

“The jarls will ultimately decide,” he points out. She makes a small noise of agreement.

He can feel the slow pull of the ship, knows they’ve fully rejoined the rest of the fleet, dropping anchor alongside the others. The jarls will already be assembled upon the lead corsair for Clan Heymaey’s small fleet.

Disinterestedly, Calanthe asks, “Is the tall and deadly-with-an-axe Jarl of Hindarsfjall among the fleet?”

He can hear it, dancing at the edges of her tone. Still, he feigns ignorance, “What does it matter to you?”

She shrugs, shifting in his arms. “I like to know the measure of my rivals.”

“You have no rival, woman,” he assures her. He means it, in every sense, with every ounce of his being. With a low growl, he holds her tighter, letting his teeth play along the line of her neck.

He feels the smug smirk on her lips, radiating through her whole body like the heat of a flame. Oh, she knows. She’s always known. Still, she enjoys hearing it.

He can hear the men calling out from the deck, preparing the rowboat.

With a quick peck on the cheek and a sharp smack on the ass, he promises, “We’ll finish this conversation later.”

He’s nearly to the door when he realizes that she isn’t following. He stops, turning back in askance.

She’s simply waiting. With a sudden jolt, he realizes, for the first time, that he is the high royal in this scenario. She’s a queen, yes, but little more than a visiting dignitary, in terms of protocol. She doesn’t presume a place by his side whilst discussing potential tactics with his nobles.

It’s a simple act, and yet, it means the world to him.

Yes, she bent the edges of her promise, but only to be here with him, to fight back the helpless clawing fear of knowing that he could be in danger. Yes, she is a high ruler and a warrior and a commander of armies in her own right, but she can step aside and let him be all those things as well, without batting an eye.

He extends his hand to her, feeling a ripple of delight for the way her expression shifts at the silent invitation, the way she ducks and smiles, almost shyly.

Some women swooned over roses and pretty words. His woman blushed over a seat at the war table. How had the gods ever seen fit to bless him with such a thing?

It isn’t a blessing, he reminds himself. It is a choice. His, and hers.

* * *

It’s interesting, watching Calanthe be a queen outside her own kingdom. With a mild ripple of surprise, he realizes that in all the years he’s known her, he’s only ever known her in Cintra, in the seat of her own dominion. Yes, she’s visited Skellige twice, as far as he can remember. But never while he was king, and never for something like this.

She stands just over his right shoulder, hands set easily on her hips, forearms still clad with bracers and legs still covered in armor from the thighs down. She watches him raptly—if anyone’s attention gets drawn to her, her pointed gaze and body language reflect it right back to him.

She doesn’t look like a Skelliger, not in the least. Her features are too dark, even her skin’s a shade tanner (though some of it could be the dust from the road, he realizes—she looks disheveled and dashing and he can’t imagine a more beautiful look for her). Her armor is heavier, distinctly Cintran, as is the hefty broadsword at her hip. But she doesn’t wear as many layers as the Skelligers, her shoulders and hips narrower than any broad-backed jarl aboard the ship. She’s a fairly tall woman, sleek and powerful in her own right—but in this company, she looks delicate, he realizes.

Granted, if he or anyone else present uttered such a remark, she’d have her sword—and the offender’s tongue—out in a flash.

She didn’t allow her men to join them at the council. It’s another sign of her acknowledgment that she is currently in his domain, a guest who will not push the bounds of his hospitality.

Until now, he didn’t realize he could fall deeper in love. But now, he realizes that he was utterly wrong.

The jarls seem to share his commitment to Bran’s vision. Perhaps the decade of peace his rule brought has taught them the true value of it.

In the end, there is a unanimous verdict that Skellige will wait. He and Calanthe return to the rowboat, along with another member of his crew, who came along as an additional oarman. Calanthe merely sits in the middle of the boat, watching Eist row with glittering eyes and a small, appreciative smile that makes him grin in return.

She doesn’t get to see him like this often, he realizes. She obviously enjoys it. And he finds that he enjoys being seen by her like this, just as much.

The rope ladder is dropped for them, and as usual, the rowboat rocks and rolls under the shifting weights of their bodies. He uses it as an excuse to hold her hips, keeping her steady. Her hands grip over his for just a flash, before reaching for the ladder. She starts to climb, offering a quick, dashing grin over her shoulder, well-aware that he's enjoying the view as he follows after.

She'd make a wondrous brigand, he thinks. Though he'd probably be far less competent of a sailor, having such distraction around him constantly.

He realizes that he's seeing her differently, too, in this little venture. And despite the fear and uncertainty, he can't help but be grateful for this small gift it affords.


	2. Chapter 2

After so many years, Calanthe doesn’t need a squire or a shieldmaiden to help her in and out of armor—at least not a set as uncomplicated as this. But an extra pair of hands certainly helps.

This particular pair of hands is a little more….liberal in their idea of helping, granted, but she supposes it’s not a bad thing.

The confines of his quarters are darkening, filling with shadows as the day disappears into night. She stands a bit closer to the small windows lining one side of the room, using what little light remains to start unclasping her bracers.

He moves to stand in front of her, gently taking over. He removes her left bracer, setting it aside on the oak table, already covered in bits of her armor from earlier. Then he gently rolls up the edge of her sleeve and kisses the pulse point at her wrist. She simply watches him in rapt fascination (oh that face, oh how she has missed it). He repeats the action with her right bracer, and this time, she lets her fingertips curl slightly, stroking against the underside of his chin.

Both layers of shirt come next, and he hums in approval as he removes the thick strips of linen wrapped around her chest to keep her breasts in a more manageable state while fighting. He kisses the scar on her shoulder, her souvenir of Hochebuz—with a mild smile, she realizes that he always kisses that spot, almost every time he undresses her. Like a pilgrim returning to a holy site, blessing and being blessed by it.

Her hand slips into his hair, gently tugging in encouragement. It stays there, even as he kneels down, his own hands slipping around her right thigh to unfasten the leather strap securing her cuisse.

“I may need you to put these back on, in a minute,” Eist confesses, voice lined with a kind of heaviness that never fails to set her hips aflame. He looks up, eyes lined with playful longing. She understands that his request comes with the expectation that she won’t be wearing anything underneath. She merely grins.

“Expecting a skirmish?” She teases, arching a brow.

“All out war,” he informs her. He takes her hips in his hands and pulls her forward, nuzzling a kiss into her now-bare stomach. “The kind that rages for decades, I imagine.”

Decades. She likes the promise of it. Her hand caresses the side of his face again, desperate to touch him as often as possible—she can’t ever help herself, every time he returns to her. She can't curb the impulse to constantly reassure herself that he’s here, he’s back, with her, where he belongs.

His playful grin disappears when he eventually removes her final layer of leggings to reveal a set of linen strips wound around each leg, covering most of her inner thighs.

He looks up at her, the alarm and concern screamingly clear, even in the shadows of the room.

“The saddle has not been kind,” she explains, expression twisted in a light grimace.

It’s been a long time since she’s had to ride all day for days at time, in rough, thick breeches, he realizes. Years, even. All of her recent battles and skirmishes have been within her own kingdom, within easy riding distance, and usually not in the height of summer, where heat and sweat only increase the amount of chafing.

With delicate fingers, he finds the beginning of the strip, gingerly unwrapping it. She shifts slightly, putting her weight into her left leg and angling her right so that it’s easier of him to continue unwinding it from around her thigh.

She hisses slightly at the final layer, which pulls lightly against her raw skin.

His mouth is pressed into a thin, hard line.

“That needs some salve,” he decrees. It’s deep red, like a rash, and a bit of the skin looks broken. A glance at the linen in his hand confirms—there’s a pinkish stain upon it, not too heavy, thankfully.

“I have some—in my saddlebag.”

Which is currently with her horse, back ashore. Eist bites back a sigh of frustration and looks around, mind casting about for a solution.

Finally, he stands.

“Stay here.”

She rolls her eyes at that. As if she’s going to go on walkabout with nothing but a bandage around one thigh.

He leaves and she takes a beat to simply look around, wondering how long he'll be.

She looks over to the bed in the corner—far narrower than the one they share in Cintra (he has his own bed, in his own chambers in the castle, but she can count on one hand the number of times he's actually used it). Still, it’s manageable for two.

Idly, she wonders how many other women he has taken in that bed. Finds her blood warming at the image of him in such scenes. Curses her ravaged thighs for limiting her options for christening the bed with her own body.

Not that they won’t find a way, she knows. They both have the will, that’s for certain.

She moves closer, gingerly sitting on the edge. She can smell him on the sheets. Her chest tightens with memory and longing, fingertips tracing over the dent in the pillow left by his head.

Then she returns her attention to her left thigh, removing the bandage and holding her breath as she makes quick work of the more painful bit that’s become stuck to her skin.

She saw his face, with the other one. He hated bringing her pain, even when it was necessary, even when it wasn’t his fault in the least. She'll spare him that much.

The door rattles and she perks up, relieved that he's back so soon. He closes the door and locks it before turning back to hold up a small dish.

He returns to her side and she peers into it. Not that she can actually make out what’s inside—the bed is in the corner farthest from the windows, and now everything is nearly dark as pitch.

“Aloe,” he supplies. “We usually use it for the sun.”

She hums in understanding. The Skelligers are a rather fair-skinned bunch. They generally redden rather than tan. Aloe is probably standard fare on every ship they sail.

He walks over to a shelf, where a wash basin is fitted into the wood, keeping it stable during more restless seas. He finds a clean washcloth and wets it.

He turns back to her with a regretful, pained look.

It’s going to sting, she knows. She merely reaches for it, more than willing to spare him the task.

He focuses on cutting the aloe with his knife, using his thumb to push the gel inside back into the bowl. He can feel the way Calanthe’s entire body tenses as she washes her wounded skin, and he knows that she’s grinding her teeth to keep from whimpering or cursing or both.

She’s trying to be strong, for his benefit. Not because he hasn’t seen her weak but because she knows how deeply her pain affects him, even on a scale as mild as this.

He knows this, and he can’t help but love her for it.

By the time she’s finished, he has the aloe ready. He lights a lamp and hands it to her, letting her hold it over her opened thighs so that he can see well enough to ensure every bit of damaged skin is properly coated.

She tenses at first, then sighs gratefully. Using her free hand, she takes up the washcloth again, trying to work away some of the grime from her face and neck. The ride south was fast and hard. She knows she must look and smell a fright, compared to her usual state when he sees her, but he seems thoroughly unaffected. But that is the way of war. It is the ultimate humbler—the smells and the dirtiness and the discomfort, the almost-constant feral state of it, even when at rest.

But he’s not some powdered and perfumed lord of court, either, who would blanche at such things. He knows the hardness of war and life at sea.

Not for the first time, she thanks anything and anyone who could be remotely responsible for giving herself such a man. She smiles softly, watching the lamplight play over his features as he concentrates on his task, fingertips gently patting more aloe into her skin.

“Why is it,” her voice is wry and exasperated, dancing with affection. “That I come down here to save you, only to have you save me instead?”

He hums at that, taking a moment to dip his head and kiss the top of her thigh, the area not chaffed or hurting. He gently takes the lamp from her grasp, snuffing it out and setting it on the shelf beside his bed. “Perhaps if you’d stayed in Cintra—”

She withdraws from him at that, shifting a bit further down the mattress. He watches her for a beat, not really frustrated or amused or anything beyond mildly curious. It’s still a bit odd, seeing her in this part of his life. Not unpleasant, but still odd.

“I know it was foolish,” she admits. Even in the darkness, he can see the almost-pout of her lips. “And I know—you’re more than capable of handling this on your own. I _know_ , Eist.”

She does know. He can feel the certainty in her tone, practically humming in her veins.

“And yet,” he prompts quietly.

“And yet,” she closes her eyes lightly, as if overwhelmed by her own ridiculousness. “My heart was a far greater adversary than my knowledge.”

That heart of hers. It’s gotten her in trouble, plenty of times. He thinks back to the night of their marriage. Most people probably saw only willful pride and unwarranted prejudice on display. He knew, even then, that it was something different, something far more powerful: love. Love, and the fear it brings.

That same love has brought her here, fierce in its inability to bow to any rule of logic or reason.

He reaches up, lets his hand stroke over the curve of her calf.

“Thank you,” he says, quite simply.

She looks back at him, eyes glittering with emotion, frowning as if he’s sprouted a second head.

“For loving me,” he clarifies. “And letting me truly love you, in return.”

The corner of her mouth hitches slightly, but her lips firmly press back together. Her eyes are still wide and watery. He gets up and slips onto the mattress beside her. They sit, side by side, backs against the wall and shoulders touching.

She reaches over, letting her hand take his.

“It was this way, when Pavetta was young,” she admits thickly, ducking her head. “I know I blamed Roegner for keeping me out of the fray, but truly—most of it was my own fear. The thought that somehow…something would happen if I were ever away from her.”

Her lips curl into a dry smile as she adds, “Then she became a teenager, and half the time I rather hoped I took an ax to the head, if it got me out of dealing with those moods and hysterics.”

He chuckles at that. She hums as well, happy that he’s happy.

He lets his hand turn, resting on his thigh, palm to the sky. Her fingertips lightly pull and dance across, fingers slipping between his and pulling out again to trace over the various lines in his palm. His voice is barely a whisper as he confesses, “I used to think—to die in battle, it seemed fitting. And I never feared it, never really blinked in the face of death. And now…now I’ve found there’s so much more to live for.”

Her fingers push between his again, tightening into a small embrace. _I understand_ , they say.

He lets his thumb rub over her knuckle _. I know_ , it echoes.

Of course she understands. But he needs her to truly understand—to understand that he does as well. That he’ll never do anything to jeopardize what they’ve built, that he’ll never willingly put her heart in such a fearful position. He needs her to understand that while they are complements and opposites in many things, in this matter, they are the same creature.

“I do want peace to work,” he assures her. “Not just for my brother’s legacy. Or even for the sake of my own people. My desires are purely selfish—I want this over and done, without a drop of blood spilt. Then I want to come home, to my queen and my family.”

She nuzzles against his shoulder, her breath pushing through the fabric of his shirt, heavy and hot.

“You _are_ making the best choice,” she whispers, voice rasping with emotion. “Not just for yourself, but your people. The jarls respect you. Admire you, most of them—I’d watch that bond from Clan Dimun, the one with the fox face. He’s a snake, but the others…they love their king.”

He feels a flush of warmth at the naked admiration in her tone.

“They will do as you command. Because they trust you.” She places a small kiss at the joint of his shoulder, as if settling the matter. Tone laced with a smile, she admits, “I like watching you be high king. It’s rather…gratifying.”

He doesn’t miss the true meaning behind her words (not that it’s ever hard to divine). He grins as he looks over at her, “You should come back to Skellige. Get your fill of watching me in action.”

She huffs in amusement at that, brows lifting in surprise, “And do what? Laze around all day, waiting for you to come pull me into bed?”

“It’s a pretty easy life to adjust to, trust me.”

She grins wickedly, not denying that his own life in Cintra does bear remarkable resemblance to that. Still, she teases, “You would tire of me, within a week.”

“A lie, through and through.”

She hums. Then she leans in slightly, voice becoming heavy and rasping once more, dancing with mischief, “Well, then your jarls certainly would. I’d be an awful distraction. Without a nation to run, there’d be nothing to preoccupy my mind but thoughts of you. I’d behave _most_ unseemly, I’m quite certain.”

“Sounds lovely,” he decrees, leaning in as well. She meets him in a kiss, solid but relatively chaste.

Truth be told, he can’t imagine Calanthe without a kingdom to manage, without some problem to solve, some dynamic ever-changing riddle to engage her mind.

“Our granddaughter would never allow it,” she decrees.

He chuckles in agreement.

“She asks for you constantly,” Calanthe adds, her tone laced with affectionate warmth. “I’m afraid I’m not quite the play companion that you are.”

“Well, I personally find you to be quite playful. Though I suppose our games are a bit…different.”

She hums at that. Her hand moves further up his thigh, her intent unmistakable.

He gently wraps a hand around her wrist. “In the morning, love. I think we’re both too exhausted to truly do anything noteworthy tonight.”

She doesn’t deny the accusation. Truth be told, it’s more about wanting him to know that she’s missed him, rather than actually needing physical gratification at this point.

“Well, you’re at least taking your clothes off,” she sits back slightly, as if allowing him freedom to do just that. “I need to be able to at least touch you.”

He laughs softly—he hadn’t expected anything less. He slips off the bed again, holding out his hand to help her off as well. She helps him undress, hands slipping over his body with a sense of soft gratefulness that never fails to make him sigh. Then he pulls back the covers, sliding into bed and waiting for her to join him.

She takes a moment to simply look at him, barely visible in the darkness, particularly with her own shadow looming over him.

Again, she wonders how many other women have slipped under these covers. It isn’t a thing of jealousy, merely curiosity. Back when she was still denying his advances, she’d actually hoped that he found someone to warm his bed. He deserved happiness and satisfaction.

He still does. She’s just realized that sometimes, it comes from a different source. From something deeper than a quick physical fix.

She joins him—the bed’s small, which means it’s best for them to both lay on their sides. But she gently turns him to the wall, letting her body curl around his, her right knee over his hip, giving her salved thighs a bit of space to breathe. She wraps her arm around his chest, hand resting gently over his heart. She nuzzles into the space between his shoulder blades, grateful for the way she can feel them shift with every breath he takes.

He is here. He is safe. That is all that matters.

* * *

It’s not quite dawn when he stirs awake. She’s been up for a while, not really sleeping at all during the night and making herself anxious with the knowledge that she _should_ be sleeping, should be properly rested, just in case today turns to bloodshed. Eist always moves in his sleep, and each change of position only further pointed out how much time was passing, how much sleep she was not getting.

Currently, he’s on his back. She’s resting on his chest, staring blankly ahead into the darkness and listening to the steady pull of his lungs, grateful that at least one of them is sleeping.

His hand flutters, finally finding the back of her head and lightly stroking over the nearly-completely disheveled nest of braids still pinned to her head. She hasn’t taken them down since riding out of Cintra, and removing and replacing her helmet so many times over the past several days hasn’t helped their state.

She thinks of his comment last night, before he saw the state of her thighs. Maybe when he returns to Cintra, she’ll have him immediately directed to her chambers. Maybe she’ll be waiting, wearing her golden armor—but just the armor, no clothing beneath.

She smiles softly. Yes, his eyes would light up like a child’s at that, all boyish delight and breathless grin.

She’d forego the breastplate, she decides. Keep all of his favorite bits on display.

At least her sleeplessness is somewhat productive, she thinks. Beneath her cheek, his chest heaves—a heavy, sleepy sigh, almost a groan at the realization that it’s nearly morning.

“Did you sleep at all?” His voice is still fuzzy and low. She can’t see his face, but she’s certain that he hasn’t even opened his eyes yet—and somehow, he still knows.

“A bit,” she lies. She can’t have him worrying over her.

He hums, his incredulity evident, even in such a small sound. She shifts slightly, placing a light kiss on his chest. A small _I know, don’t start_.

He heeds her unspoken advice. The hand that had ghosted over her hair is now at her shoulder blade, fingertips created lazy whorls across her bare skin.

There’s no direct intent behind the touch. Just reassuring himself that she’s real, really here, not some dream.

“How are those thighs?” He asks, voice a little clearer.

“Come inspect them yourself.”

He chuckles at that, his chest rippling beneath her cheek and making her shake a bit as well. She smiles warmly, delighted at his reaction, at the way his body moves and feels when he’s happy and at-ease.

She lets her hand stroke down his torso. Like his touch, hers is light and uncommitted as well. More about assurance than arousal.

He shifts, as if he’s about to sit up, but she presses her cheek against his chest more firmly. “Stay. Just a little longer.”

He acquiesces easily enough, closing his eyes again. After a long, lazy pause, he speaks up, “I’m glad you’re here.”

She hums, understanding everything those simple words encompass. She knows the weight of a kingdom, how sits on the shoulders when faced with a decision that could change its course forever. The doubt that gnaws at the mind, making you question everything, even the things you know beyond all certainty. Eist needed reassurance, and she was here to give it. He could be more vulnerable with her than with anyone else, because she understood, better than anyone else—she understood _him_ , just as deeply as she understood his burden and his predicament.

However, all she says is, “Of course, my dearest.”

 _Of course I’m here. Where else would I be, but by your side?_ He smiles, understanding full well every word of it. He thinks again of their wedding night—more specifically, of the skirmish that occurred whenever he rose to defend Duny’s claim, alongside the Witcher. Even though they’d been on opposite sides of the fight, she had still taken up a sword and slain a man in his defense, without batting an eye.

Yes, she’s always loved him, he knows. Quite fiercely, quite deeply.

Of course she rode through days of heat and exhaustion, nearly breaking her own body in the process, just to stand behind him and let him be king of his own people. Of course she put her own self in danger, at the mere thought that he might be, as well.

Looking back, he’s not sure why he expected any outcome other than exactly this.

He shifts, turning so that he can wrap her into both of his arms, squeezing his gratitude into her frame. She stiffens for a moment, slightly surprised, then melts into his embrace, burying her face into his neck.

“It’s going to be alright,” he decides. It has to be. She is here, his shining lioness—what other outcome could exist, with her at his side?

She nods, pushing her body closer into his in agreement.

He looks over to the window, where the first light of dawn begins to appear. He holds her like that a while longer. His talisman, his shield, his heart, forever outside his own chest.

Her lips grow more insistent, pressing against his throat, lightly nipping at his skin. He can feel the frenetic energy building in her body, knows that soon she’ll have to exorcise it. He simply lets her—lets her hands push him onto his back again, lets her stroke him as she peppers kisses along his chest and shoulder, lets her hook a leg over his hip, pulling herself up to sit above him, lets her take him inside her, tilting her head to the ceiling in grateful relief. He offers his hands, which she takes in her own, using him as a brace to stay upright as she slowly begins to set a pace.

“These walls are thin,” he reminds her, when she makes her first low, rasping moan.

“Then you’d best keep me quiet,” she challenges, giving a deep swivel of her hips that pulls another aching sound from her lungs.

He pulls her down into a kiss, feeling a familiar mixture of adoration and irritation at the way she laughs into his mouth. Then she pushes against his chest, sitting up fully again. Her eyes are still gleaming with mischief, but she still presses her lips into a thin, tight line as she suppresses a warm, low sound.

She stays leaning forward slightly, hands pressing into his chest as she continues. He holds her hips steady, grinning breathlessly in return.

There’s something playful, almost giddy, about it all. Again, it’s like they’re sharing some great secret that the rest of the world can’t possibly ever know or understand. It’s an inside joke, a language only they speak. The sudden surge in his chest is from a purely emotional sensation (although the current physical ones are _quite_ nice, mind you).

He suppresses a low moan of his own and her brows arch, as if silently chiding him. She leans forward, just a fraction more, right hand coming up to cover his mouth—firmly enough to be felt, but lightly enough that he could disengage it with a tilt of his chin.

Instead, he presses further into the touch, lips leaving a kiss on her palm.

She smiles at that. It’s like the breaking of the dawn, beautiful and bright and full of promise.

* * *

When Eist’s ship returns to the docks, there is a messenger awaiting him—there is an envoy from the high court of Nilfgaard, who will be arriving at the steward’s keep by noon. They wish to speak to the King of Skellige.

He feels Calanthe, back in her full armor with her helmet securing her identity, shift slightly towards him. Even without seeing her expression, he knows exactly what it looks like—the caution, the wariness, the absolute certainty that he isn’t attending such a meeting without her.

He knows that he couldn’t stop her, even if he wanted to.

* * *

Pemell, her personal guard, comes, too. Eist brings his two most trusted men along as well. He feels rather confident in their ability to hack their way out, if it should become a trap.

The Nilfgaardian delegation is led by a somber-faced man who seems too bored to even try feigning sincerity. He informs Eist that the attack on the Skelligen ship last month was entirely the work of some lowlifes, not affiliated with the Nilfgaardian army in the least, and of course they’re investigating the matter with utmost concern. And the soldiers clearing out Skelliger merchants and mercenaries? Well, just some young knights a bit overzealous in their work. They’re merely meant to ensure that everyone at the Port of Metinna has the proper paperwork. The knights will be taken to task, rest assured.

Eist watches the steward’s face, through it all. He doesn’t mention that the steward told him about the signed orders to remove foreign nationals. Doesn’t play a card that will only escalate a situation.

Instead, he merely swallows the lies. Tells himself it’s about peace, not pride. Nilfgaard forgot whom they were dealing with. Now they remember. Now they’ll behave. That’s what matters.

Still, it smarts. Knowing he’s being taken for a fool. Knowing he has to play along, to make them think that their obvious lies are still enough to outwit him, an obvious lumbering idiot of a fisherman.

He knows what Mainlanders still think of Skelligers. What they’ve always thought, even as they paid for their services and gladly benefited from their skills and talents. And now he’s bowing his head and playing right into that stereotype, the bumbling boor of a barbarian king.

He could literally kill every man on the delegation, without ever needing to draw his sword. And as much as he hates politics, he could easily out-maneuver most of them in a heartbeat.

Still, peace over pride.

And yet, he’s still got a restless, anxious energy boiling in his veins, as they leave the steward’s keep. He can feel an odd energy from Calanthe as well. She wants to say something, but not in front of anyone else. Probably to point out exactly how he should have made his points more clearly, how he should have shown his might just a touch more definitively.

They board the ship again, heading back out to the rest of the fleet. This time, she leaves her knights at the docks, with a promise to return soon.

The moment they’re in his private quarters again, she whips off her helmet and pulls him into her, kissing him soundly.

It isn’t the reaction he was expecting, but he certainly doesn’t mind.

She pulls back sharply, breathless as she declares, “It wasn’t easy, I know. The right thing rarely is.”

The restless anger is slowly melting away. Her eyes are shining up at him, so fervent, so desperate for him to believe as much as she does that he’s made the right decision, even if it rankles.

“Your people _must_ come first,” she rasps, fingers curling deeper into the fabric of his tunic. “You smiled and nodded along to their patronizing lies, and because of it, you saved hundreds, if not thousands, of lives. On both sides. Do you understand? Do you understand the price you paid?”

He considers her words. Obviously, he was aware that he was choosing peace, but he hasn’t truly taken full stock of what that means.

Still, he can’t help but ask, “And what of my men? What of the jarls and bonds, when they hear of how I accepted such bald-faced lies?”

“Don’t tell them,” she blinks, as if it’s stupidly simple. “Part of being king means choosing the words written upon the scrolls of history. Hochebuz was a petty, ridiculous fucking spat—and yet, what do the bards sing? What does it say, in the annals of Cintra? That a mighty warrior rose up and united her nation.”

She huffs incredulously at that. She’d been fifteen, baby-faced and so terrified that she’d retched in her tent, the morning before battle. How anyone could look upon that pale, sickly thing and seen a golden lioness, she’ll never know. They didn’t, really, she knows. But the few who did survive needed something to romanticize, something to make it all worth it. A beautiful warrior queen fit the bill, it seemed. And bards, well—one doesn’t have to even encourage their efforts at embellishment.

“Besides, it is not a lie to say that Nilfgaard has promised to stop the attacks. You’ve been given assurance of safe conduct for all Skelligers, at every port in Metinna.” Her eyes are wide with sincerity. Again, she’s found a loophole and wholeheartedly believes in it.

That’s why she’s so good at this game, he realizes. She doesn’t feign hardly anything—because most of the time, she can genuinely convince herself to believe it as well.

“Holger and Birge were with me,” he points out.

“They are your men,” she shrugs. “They believe in you. They trust you, to the ends of the earth. You chose them because you trust them, did you not?”

“Aye,” he tilts his head, almost a nod.

“Then trust them. They are good men.” She knows them, from various visits to court over the years. Not as deeply as Eist, but still, he cannot deny her assessment.

The floor rolls beneath their feet. The ship is unmoored, finally moving out into the harbor.

She strides over to the long wooden table, sets down her helmet, removes her thick leather gloves. She dips her head as she comes back to him again, hands quickly untying the stays of his breeches.

“You are a king,” she says, rather determinedly. “You make your own truth.”

She’s a bit terrifying like this, truth be told. It’s the side of her that the rest of the world sees the most, he knows. The side of her that has scratched and clawed her way back to the top, the one that has carved out her own destiny among the hard spaces of her life.

She sinks down to her knees, shifting his pants down as well.

“Believe,” she commands, eyes wide and locked onto his, brooking no refusals.

Her eyes never leave his as she shows him just how much she loves watching him be a king, just how much she believes in the choices he’s made today, just how much she admires him for making the right choice.

It’s like an absolution, and an affirmation.

By the time the ship anchors with the rest of the fleet, his restless energy is gone. All that remains is utter certainty that he’s done the best he can, for the betterment of his realm—along with the mind blowing realization that yes, somehow, his heart must have expanded, to fit all the newfound adoration he feels for the woman who grins as she rises to her feet again, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand with such unrepentant pride that he can’t help but fall even more hopelessly in love.

And as commanded, he believes.

* * *

To ensure Nilfgaard truly upholds their promise, almost half of the fleet stays, spanning out to the other two ports in Metinna. It’s a quiet but pointed message: _Promises have been made with words, now show us with actions._

Crach stays to lead them. Not for the first time, Eist feels a small dash of wonderment at the man his nephew has finally become, since stepping into the role of Jarl of Skellige.

Taking his wife’s advice, Eist keeps the details of the meeting to a bare minimum. And as she predicted as well, Holger and Birge seem to understand the unspoken agreement that no other details need to be disclosed. Later, he realizes that they understood his actions, understood the need to feign ignorance—and they think it cunning, rather than cowardly.

 _Let them underestimate you from now on_ , Brige had said, as they’d rowed back from Clan Heymaey’s corsair to their own. _If they think they have the advantage, they’ll get lazy, and sloppy—makes it all the more easier for you to do what needs doing, if the time comes_.

He’d nodded, silently hoping the time would never come.

Calanthe had stayed aboard his ship, this time. Now that the anxiety was gone, she’d fallen asleep on his bed, still fully armored aside from her helmet and gloves.

She is so exhausted that she doesn’t even stir when he returns—usually, she is the lightest of sleepers, jumping awake at the smallest sound.

Now, she sleeps on, her usual soft snore droning without interruption. He grins. He always teases her about it, saying it is like sleeping next to a pissed-off bumblebee.

With her armor on, she takes up most of the bed, arms and legs splayed out in an attempt to be comfortable. He considers telling his men to keep the ship anchored, just for another hour or so. But he knows her own men are still waiting at the docks, and she would be upset if she knew that he’s made them wait longer, simply for her own comfort. She is a true leader, choosing to endure whatever conditions her men do. It's one of the first traits he admired about her, all those years ago.

So he sits on the edge of the mattress, fingertips lightly trailing over her hairline. She twitters at that, groaning slightly. He watches her face as she grimaces, brain whirring to mentally catch up.

“Wha…how’d it go?” She tilts her head forward like she’s going to sit up, but then flops back onto the pillow.

“I wrote my own history,” he informs her softly.

Her eyes are closed, but her mouth opens into a smile. She reaches out blindly, hand rubbing against his hip, _Good boy_.

“Will you ride back to Cintra immediately?” He asks. He already knows the answer.

She hums in affirmation. She tries to sit up again—this time, he helps her, knowing how cumbersome even the lightest armor is, when trying to manage such a thing. With a heavy sigh, she scrubs a hand across her face. “As delightful as the idea of being your little bed-warmer sounds, you married a queen, unfortunately.”

He grins, leaning in to kiss her temple. “And I knew what I was getting, when I married her.”

She smiles softly at that. Then she tilts her face towards his a bit more, voice heavy with want as she rasps, “Kiss me, sea hound.”

He does, soundly enough to push her back onto the mattress.

“Less than two weeks,” he promises, once their lips part again. She nods at that, still a bit too overwhelmed to respond verbally. He lets his fingertips trill along the curve of her neck, savoring the soft skin at the nape. With a grin, he points out, “Those thighs will be healed, and we can celebrate.”

His hand slips down to the thighs in question. She sighs happily at the idea.

“You’ll take me to the river,” she decrees with knowing warmth.

He hums in agreement. “Then I can properly thank you for the…rousing speech you gave.”

He tilts his head towards the table, where her helmet and gloves still rest, where she set them before sinking to her knees and convincing him with her mouth, without words.

She grins wolfishly. “That wasn’t solely for your benefit, dear king.”

He feigns surprise. Calanthe of Cintra, having ulterior motives? A shock to his soul.

She laughs at his unspoken snark. She lifts up her hand, letting it trail down his arm. “I do enjoy watching you be high king. Watching you stride into the steward’s court, watching the world shift when you enter a room. The way your jaw tenses, when you try to remain calm, the wheels in your mind ever-turning…”

Her hand slips up to brush against his temple. Again, he realizes that how he perceived the situation and how it was interpreted by others are two entirely different things. He’s fascinated, knowing that while he felt angry and failing, she looked on in admiration and even lust.

“You were every inch a king,” she rasps, voice warm and pleased. Her wicked grin returns as she adds, “And all I could think was: the moment I get him alone, I’m going to take him, every inch.”

He laughs silently at that, ducking and shaking his head. Yes, that is his woman and her logic. She sees strength and wants to claim it, needs to know she can conquer it, however necessary. She sees him, being calm and collected, and wants nothing more than to turn him into an absolute mess.

He doesn’t mind. Every time he’s crumbled beneath her charms, she’s always been there to catch him, to pick up the pieces and meld them together again. She rebuilds, just as easily as she destroys. And she destroys with such absolute tender ferocity, who would not welcome such destruction?

“Hitting my knees was far faster than getting out of this,” she drums her fingers against her breastplate. “So needs must. Though I have no complaints.”

“Nor I,” he assures her, leaning down to kiss her again. This time it’s slow, languorous. She hums and sighs, arching a bit, pressing further into his mouth. He understands the unspoken sentiment: _I’d take you again, if I could._

But she isn’t just some playmate who’s stowed away to spend her days rolling about his bed ( _pity_ ). She is a queen and they’ll be back at the docks all too soon, where her own men await her return.

He thinks of the ride back to Cintra—and once again, of her thighs.

“You have enough salve for the journey?” His hand goes back to lightly rest on her leg. She nods. He continues, “Stay out of the river for a week, at least. Don’t risk an infection.”

She merely smiles at his concern, but offers no promises. He levels a look at her, _I mean it._

Her smile deepens. She loves his tenderness, his constant concern. She places a hand over his—this time, it’s a promise.

He rises to his feet, offering her a hand and pulling her up as well. Her armor creaks and groans and he smiles. He cups her jaw in one hand, savoring another kiss. A king and his knight, he thinks. Not how he expected the great love affair of his life to go, but he certainly can’t complain.

She can feel his amusement, pulling back slightly to look up at him in mild confusion.

His grin deepens as he explains, “I just…I never thought I’d be here. Swept off my feet by some knight in ill-fitting armor.”

She tries to scowl, lips going through a full exercise as she fights back a smile. “Ill-fit or no, I could still take you—”

“You already have.” He reminds her.

Her feigned tirade is cut short by a laugh. She shakes her head. Then, with a smile, she rises upon her toes, pulling him back to meet her in another kiss. There’s no urgency, no desire to build another fire between them. Just softness, just enjoyment of them together, however they can be in the dwindling moments.

The ship is giving its odd lurching cadence, a sign that they’ve reached the docks and will be ready for disembarkment soon. She sighs, nuzzling into his neck again.

“Less than two weeks,” he reminds her, hand at the back of her head, keeping her close for just a few moments more.

“Less than two weeks,” she echoes, closing her eyes.

Then she shifts, eyes dancing as she promises, “I’ve got quite the surprise planned, when you return home.”

 _Return home_. He likes the sound of it. He likes the idea of a surprise almost as much—given her expression and tone, there’s little guessing the nature of said surprise.

She grabs the collar of his tunic, pulling him in for one more rough, searing kiss. Then, she practically pushes him away as she heads to grab her gloves and helmet. Her back is turned to him, shoulders high and tight as she slips on her gloves and fights back her own emotions. She feels him shifting closer, feels the weight of his hands sliding under her tasses to settle on her hips, swiveling them with lazy curiosity, as if she’s some toy and he’s trying to figure out how she works.

She fights down a grin. This only doubles her resolve—yes, he’ll be absolutely delighted at the sight of her in her armor, she knows. A king and his knight, indeed.

“I’m afraid you must release me from your service, dear king,” she drawls. She doesn’t turn around, doesn’t break away from his grasp. They have a few moments, she’ll give him any comfort he needs.

He’s still idly rocking her hips from side to side. “Only temporarily.”

She hums at that. She swivels her hips a bit more, biting back a grin at small growl of approval he gives in response.

Then he leans in a bit, pressing his forehead against the back of her head, making her tilt forward slightly so that he can kiss the nape of her neck.

“I truly am grateful you came,” he whispers, voice etched with emotion. “That heart of yours seems to always know how to best take care of me.”

She smiles again, feeling her eyes prick with heated tears. How does he always do this—turn the things she fears as weaknesses into her greatest strengths, praise as virtues the things she takes as vices?

Still, she’s not one for maudlin declarations. So she steers to safer waters.

“There are other parts of me that are…more than eager to take care of you, too,” she informs him. He laughs against her skin.

“Tell me about it, when you get home.” He wants a raven from her, she knows. A message filled with the most salacious things. She merely nods, more than happy to oblige. It will be a nice little gift, already awaiting him by the time he returns to Skellige. She warms at the thought that now, when he says _home_ , he’s referring to Cintra. To her.

Now she turns back to face him, putting on her bravest face and offering a dashing grin.

“Farewell, dear hound.”

“Until we meet again, fair lioness.”

They share another grin, like two kids playing some grand game. He pats her ass one last time and she scoops her helmet off the table, donning it as he opens the door.

This time, she doesn’t stand at the docks and wave him off with fearful eyes. She swings atop her steed, looking slightly over her shoulder once she’s fully in the saddle. Even with her helmet on, Eist can tell that she’s smirking, fully aware that he’s been watching her ass the whole time. She guides the horse through the crowd, her men trailing behind her.

With the rest of his own men safely aboard again, they set off to rejoin the fleet. He stands at the stern, watching the port, the occasional glints of sunlight on silver armor showing him exactly where she is, amid the hustle and bustle.

The Cintrans cut to a side road, leading north, up the coast. Now they’re fully visible. The queen’s sleek dapple horse reins back slightly, picking its way down a narrower path, to a small outcrop that looks further out to sea.

Esit stands a little straighter, aware that she’s staring right at him. She removes her helmet and simply continues watching. He lifts his arm in a gesture of farewell.

Even at a distance, he can see the firm, curt nod she gives in return. The helmet goes back on, the horse wheels around and she’s off, racing to rejoin her men.

Less than two weeks, his heart echoes.

At least it would, if it were still in his chest.

It’s currently racing down the coastline, encased in armor and headed for home.


End file.
